View allAll Photos Tagged HumanConnection
A shared moment between a couple at Spy Pond. It's not someone that I know. It just reminded me of how difficult it is in these days to make a human connection!
In this COVID world, we all try to avoid each other physically! (for a good reason)
On this unfamiliar soil, beneath sterile lights and a heavy hush,
two adults embrace.
Their suits set them apart, yet cannot dim the gesture.
Perhaps they are fathers — or simply souls who’ve come to understand
that beyond all borders, closeness remains the only remedy for estrangement.
Their child runs joyfully toward another —
perhaps born here, in this old-new land,
or arrived just a little earlier.
A friend from a former world,
a quiet sign that strangeness can melt.
What does it mean to be welcome?
Sometimes, perhaps, it takes no more than a smile, an embrace,
or the eager footsteps of a child reaching out to the other.
In the quiet hum of the train, he met the camera like an old friend.
Leica Q2 Monochrome
Summilux 28mm/f1.7 Asph.
Definitely stepping way out of my comfort zone with this one - the first portrait in my gallery (well, technically a landscape-oriented portrait, but still!).
While revisiting shots from my Vietnam trip in April, I came across this moment. This lovely woman was having a selfie taken by her friend, and I was just loitering nearby, camera in hand, soaking in the scene. The background colours happened to match her beautifully, and I thought….. why not?
She spotted me straight away, of course. I was hoping she wasn't annoyed, but she gave me a big, cheerful wave. Such a simple, generous gesture.
So wherever you are, thank you unknown stranger for letting me capture such a lovely, spontaneous moment.
a quiet slope of stone, cut with late sun. two silhouettes cross the light—one tall with age, one tiny with wonder. their shadows stretch behind them like memories. there’s no rush, no noise—only the rhythm of steps in a frame that forgets time.
Amid the marble and echoes of a city that has seen too much beauty to be surprised, she poses with playful grace — part performer, part passerby. The square around her hums with footsteps and camera shutters, yet she seems untouched by it all, caught between laughter and thought.
There’s something eternal in her gesture — a reminder that joy often arrives not as a performance but as a pause: the quiet second before the smile, the moment when we forget to be seen.
In her, Venice feels young again — not in age, but in spirit — the city’s weight of history momentarily lifted by a single, spontaneous breath.
they ride like they’ve done it a hundred times, in sync without trying. her curls catch the light, his glance looks back, maybe just to check the way the sun hits her shoulders. this tunnel of glass and silence belongs to them now. valencia slows for a second, just enough to notice.
alone in the movement. the city rushes past, and yet, for a moment, everything is still. in madrid's underground, a reflection gazes back. maybe it's her story, maybe it's ours. madrid.
on a narrow street in madrid, the echo of a painted face meets the calm presence of a passerby. flesh and pigment align in a fleeting moment of symmetry — a silent dialogue between the living and the imagined. the light catches truth and illusion with equal grace, blurring the edge where reality ends and story begins.
in the hush of a rainy afternoon, two umbrellas form a quiet cathedral. beneath one, a man gazes sideways—his white hair tracing the years, his silence louder than the crowd beyond. in this brief frame, time bends inward, and all that matters is the shelter we find in each other, spoken or not.
a fleeting moment, stretched wide in laughter, spilling into the air like sunlight breaking free from clouds. her hands clasped in a pause between bursts, the soft blur of the world behind her, the bokeh glowing like tiny stage lights for an unscripted performance.
i’m running a small giveaway on instagram for this image — if you want to join in, you’ll find the details here: instagram.com/arnds.photos
🇬🇧 ENGLISH
His posture says everything: pride, patience, and a touch of humour. Leaning against his shopfront chalkboard, this butcher becomes a landmark of the street, as rooted in the scene as the brick and stone around him. An ordinary workday frozen in a charismatic moment — the kind of encounter that makes a town unforgettable.
Part of the ongoing series: AT WORK – Fragments of Labor and Dignity
👇 www.flickr.com/photos/201798544@N06/albums/72177720325357941
🇫🇷 FRANÇAIS
Sa posture dit tout : la fierté, la patience et un brin d’humour. Appuyé contre l’ardoise de son échoppe, ce boucher devient un repère dans la rue, aussi enraciné dans le décor que les briques et les pierres qui l’entourent. Une journée de travail ordinaire capturée dans un moment de charisme — le genre de rencontre qui rend une ville inoubliable.
🇮🇹 ITALIANO (facultatif)
La sua postura parla da sola: orgoglio, pazienza e un tocco di umorismo. Appoggiato alla lavagna della sua bottega, questo macellaio è un punto fermo della via, radicato quanto le pietre intorno. Un giorno qualsiasi, colto in un momento che racconta tutta una città.
a street portrait of josé maría almoguera. we were coming from the banksy museum when we saw a man being photographed, a camera crew around him. i asked him what he did. i didn’t recognize him. he said he’s on tv sometimes. then i asked if i could take his portrait. he nodded right away. i still don’t really know what he does. but he was kind.
she was focused on her phone, fingers moving across the screen. then she looked up. just for a second. a glance, sharp and unreadable. raindrops clung to her umbrella, the city moved around her. but in that moment, it was just her and the camera.
madrid. a quiet corner. the man sits behind the glass, phone pressed to his ear. his eyes hold years, his scarf rests softly on his coat. reflections dance, layering the world outside onto his moment inside. a cane leans close, a quiet witness to his life. it’s a simple scene, framed in warmth, yet it speaks of time, solitude, and connection.
in color, pere garau feels alive. the golden light catches their faces, the fabric textures, the small details that make them real. the grandfather’s firm, protective hand, the child’s quiet confidence. their presence is part of something bigger—the pulse of this neighborhood.
pere gerau is one of palma’s most diverse districts, a melting pot where cultures, languages, and generations meet. once an industrial area, it has grown into a lively quarter filled with local markets, small shops, and families from all over the world. its streets tell stories of migration, resilience, and community.
morning light streamed through the window, sharp and golden, carving shapes in the air. two tables away, a man sat still, the lines on his face deep as stories untold. i asked if i could take his portrait. he chuckled, waved me off. "i’m not a good-looking man," he said. nonsense, i told him. the light wasn’t interested in good looks. it loved character, and he had plenty of it. he let me shoot, the glow falling across his weathered features like a map of a life lived. when i showed him the raw frame on my phone, his lips curled into a smile, faint but real. "not bad," he said. he was right—it wasn’t bad. it was honest.
i had tried three times. each time in the office, ten shots. all of them were fine, but none of them felt right. andreas v. lochow is a joyful person. thatâs what i wanted to capture. but joy is not something you ask for. it has to happen. so i waited. and then, finally, i made him laugh. and that was the moment.
i’m running a small giveaway on instagram for this image — if you want to join in, you’ll find the details here: instagram.com/arnds.photos
i was walking past a laundromat on calle de hortaleza. saw this man and thought: if only he would turn around. and then, at some point, he did.
his face, weathered like old leather, told stories no words could reach. from the street, i caught a glimpse of him—his hands folded, his gaze steady, as if lost between memory and the present. the café den coll, open to the street, framed the scene like a stage. he spoke to another man, but his thoughts seemed miles away. i focused my lens on him, drawn to the weight of his silence, the years etched in his features. the slate beside him bore the words "se feliz," a handwritten reminder, almost ironic in its quiet boldness. perhaps it’s the simplest wisdom, the hardest to follow: be happy.
in a bar on a quiet street, the light hangs heavy like a forgotten song. the woman leans in, her hand raised mid-thought, her face etched with the years she carries. across from her, the man listens, still and shadowed, the weight of a backpack on his shoulders. lanterns float above them like ghosts of the past, casting their glow on the worn wooden bar and the half-empty glass. voices echo soft and low, murmurs from lives passing through. it’s a scene as timeless as the streets of valencia, where moments like these drift in and out, unnoticed but unforgettable.
walking along the promenade of portixol, she seems lost in thought, her pace matching the rhythm of the waves. the curve of the path mirrors the endless expanse of the sea, drawing you into the simplicity of the moment. the darkened sky lends a quiet weight to the scene, as if time itself has paused to listen. it’s the kind of silence that speaks, where the sea and the road become one, and her solitary figure is both fleeting and eternal.
under the harsh concrete ceiling of a parking garage in palma’s parque del mar, the glass-block wall gleamed like an odd modern artifact, throwing soft reflections onto the damp ground. the man stood there, casually leaning, hands in pockets, as if time was an easy thing to carry. maybe he was waiting for someone—his wife, lost in conversation somewhere, or a friend running late. there’s no tension in his posture, just a quiet patience. the stark black-and-white tones strip away distractions, leaving only the subtle interplay of human gesture and architecture, of waiting and stillness.
fleeting moment on an escalator, where the city’s chaos mirrors its quiet routines. her reflection feels like a parallel reality, a fleeting reminder of the everyday narratives that unfold silently. shadows and light, focus and blur—all tell a story of movement and stillness.
n a quiet street in santa catalina, the man stands across from the izakayita, lost in his phone. his reflection drifts in the restaurant’s glass, where a geisha waits silently inside. she watches, her figure half-hidden, her gaze lingering on a world that moves too fast to notice her. the street hums with life, but in this fleeting moment, the modern and the timeless meet—separated by a pane of glass, joined by the quiet weight of reflection.
he takes a drag, exhales slowly. the smoke lingers for a moment, then disappears, just like thoughts drifting away. silence in a crowded place. time pauses between the inhale and the exhale.
There’s something quietly beautiful about companionship—the kind that doesn’t need grand gestures or elaborate plans, just the simple presence of another soul. Whether it's sitting side by side in comfortable silence, sharing a laugh over an inside joke, or swapping stories deep into the night, there’s a warmth in knowing someone is there with you, without expectation or demand.
Companionship can be found in the everyday—watching the world go by together, listening to music or watching a movie with someone, or simply existing in each other’s space. It’s the ease of unspoken understanding, the familiarity of a well-worn bond, and the reassurance that even in quiet moments, connection is alive.
It doesn’t always need words; sometimes, a shared glance, a hand resting beside yours, or just the awareness of someone being near are enough to remind you that you’re not alone. And that is a gift in itself.
in the quiet echo of the arched passageways, two figures wander, lost or maybe found in a moment that entwines them with the shadows and stone. their steps, light and almost hesitant, trace the lines of a story laid down by centuries. it’s a simple tale of now meeting then, their pale forms a stark contrast to the deep, enduring walls built long before their whispered words filled these chambers. this scene, a fleeting capture of life’s quiet embraces, resonates with the timelessness of human connections, drawing us into the frame, asking us to listen, to dwell a moment longer in the dance of light and darkness.
she stood outside the barbershop, cigarette in hand, scrolling through her phone. the man in the poster stared blankly, detached, larger than life but lifeless. i lifted the camera, and she caught me. her eyes narrowed, sharp and unamused. i pressed the shutter anyway. for a second, it felt like she might curse me, but instead, she laughed. i showed her the photo, and her disapproval melted into humor. "good shot," she said, taking another drag. the poster man said nothing.
Stone and skin. Guard and greeting. He stands at the intersection of both.
The wall behind tells nothing. His eyes tell everything.
This is presence meeting presence—solid, certain, here.
wandering through the quiet streets of alcudia, i spotted a man standing by his door. intrigued by the rustic entrance, i asked if i could photograph it. little did i know, this simple request would lead to a spontaneous portrait session inside his home. he revealed himself to be a painter and writer, living without the convenience of the internet or a mobile phone. the conversation flowed, and as he posed with the chessboard, i promised him a print of this portrait. in return, he said he would paint me. sometimes, photography opens doors to more than just images â it connects people in ways you can't predict.
a life is a collection of small debts.
a hand to hold. a steadying arm on a sunlit street.
a voice on the phone, promising to be there soon.
these are not transactions recorded in any book of law.
they are the quiet, unwritten inheritance
that passes between generations.
a debt of care, gladly paid.
a wealth of time, freely given.
it is the only currency that truly matters.